


Warm Ways

by Dalzo



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bar/Pub, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Music, Banter, F/M, Fleetwood Mac References, Fluff and Angst, Mild Sexual Content, Mild Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-26
Updated: 2019-08-04
Packaged: 2020-06-29 16:07:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19833694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dalzo/pseuds/Dalzo
Summary: On the nights he left, Ben remembers the weight aside him on his childhood bed — how he’d pretend to be asleep, even though he’d just heard all the shouting and violent words that happened moments before. How his mother would sing a lullaby under her breath and pull him tighter to her chest whilst crying; repeating it all, night after night, until his father would show up on their doorstep again.Now he’s watchinghersing his mother’s lullaby and the weight settles heavy in his chest, not beside. And still, he wonders, as she delivers a soft rendition of‘Storms’,who she’s singing it for.When a pretty girl walks into his bar and sings one of the many songs written of his parents' heartbreak, Ben can’t quite force her from his mind.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RebelRebel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RebelRebel/gifts).



The first night she attended, it was _‘Landslide’_ that she plucked away on the guitar and heartily sang along to. A captivating performance, _for sure,_ but Ben was a little preoccupied by her faraway eyes and the way they misted over at the chorus. 

He wondered, then, who she sang it for; who she was singing about to produce such an emotional performance. A past lover, perhaps, or a lost friend. He can’t know for sure, only guess — and Ben has _no_ intention of asking to find out. 

So he puts the thought away and leans across the bar, watching on as she plays and sings in a cracked voice; hunched in, seeming so small on the stool, chestnut hair falling into those sad eyes while reciting one of the many songs his own mother wrote about the heartbreak his father caused. Until she sounds out the last note and it’s over. 

The girl packs up, taking the scattered applause with a great, beaming smile that lights every feature upon her expression into action, then comes over to order a beer. She tries to small-talk in a very nice and richly-sharp British lilt, typical for living in London, but this one seems to stand-out just as much as his own American accent. He hands her the pint, is thanked with a bright smile and watches her walk away to a table she sits alone at. 

He didn’t even catch her name when she spoke it into the mic. 

~ * ~

Rose was the one to suggest open-mic nights, an idea to _supposedly_ up their numbers on their quiet Wednesday nights. Ben, to be perfectly honest, thought the weekday alcoholics were enough, but saying that only got him a hard punch to the shoulder, a fierce scolding on alcoholism being _no joke_ , and the knowledge that ‘flyers have already been put up so it’s happening’. 

To be fair, he probably _could’ve_ shut it down. Sure, Rose has a role of power among his staff as _Starkiller’s_ event manager, organising party enquirements, securing band gigs, handling the complaints and the reviews — all _that_ trivial shit. He just does the numbers, really… and owns the bar, occasionally wandering out to man it. But Rose can be fiercely terrifying when determined, so he settled. 

And _thank god_ he did. 

After weeks of complaining and protesting against the terribly unfunny comedians, mediocre performances and eerily intense slam-poetry, Ben finally came around to it all when the girl showed up once more the following week. 

Ever since that night, she’d been on his mind; her raw, imperfect voice on a constant loop inside his head — hearing that _god-awful_ song about his father leaving his mother all alone, over and over on an endless cycle. Ironically, it mirrored the act pretty well. 

His father was good at leaving, but he was even _better_ at coming back. 

On the nights he left, Ben remembers the weight aside him on his childhood bed — how he’d pretend to be asleep, even though he’d just heard all the shouting and violent words that happened moments before. How his mother would sing a lullaby under her breath and pull him tighter to her chest whilst crying; repeating it all, night after night, until _he’d_ show up on their doorstep again. 

_‘Every night that goes between,”_

Now he’s watching _her_ sing his mother’s lullaby and the weight settles heavy in his chest, not beside. 

_‘I feel a little less.’_

And still, he wonders, as she delivers a soft rendition of _‘Storms’,_ who she’s singing it for. Is there someone she cares for who slams the door on the way out? Is there a person who revs the engine loud enough to wake the whole neighbourhood when dipping out of town. 

“She’s good.” Rose mentions casually at his elbow. There’s a good chance she’s looking up at him, maybe even with an all-knowing smirk, but he determinedly doesn’t look away to confirm his suspicions, merely humming in response. “Pretty, too.” 

“She’s gorgeous.” Ben says automatically, before blinking in surprise because _yes, he did say that aloud._

“Oh Solo.” Rose sympathises. “You’ve got it _bad_ and you haven’t even had a conversation.” 

“We’ve talked.” He states defensively, pitch rising.

“I don’t know if I’d call serving a beer a proper conversation—”

“And I don’t have it bad _.”_

“Right. That’s _why_ you locked yourself in your office after her performance last week.” His face flames up in a violent blush. “ _Oh my god_ , even your ears turn red—”

“I’m _just_ admiring a pretty girl.” Ben interrupts hotly. “Which is a perfectly _normal_ thing that people do. I mean, I call you gorgeous all the time, right? It’s no big deal.” 

“You’ve literally _never._ Not once.” 

“Well I think it.” 

“Stop. Please. Please just stop.” 

“What’s the matter?” He questions, hunching down his large body to look Rose directly in the eye, hands on his knees, taking a whole lot of satisfaction from the scowl that immediately twists at her mouth. “Am I making you uncomfortable.” 

“You’re an asshole.” 

“I know.” 

“This is why you’re single, by the way.” He laughs and watches her spin away. “Grow a pair and talk to her, Ben.” 

“Anything for you, _Tiny Tico.”_

As she storms off to serve a customer (probably aggressively, thanks to him), Ben turns back to watch the final seconds of the performance dwindle down.

_‘I’ve always been a storm.’_

Her eyes are closed, as she repeats the mantra in a slow cycle, left-hand shaping the chords on muscle memory while the other finger picks the strings softly.

Ben feels his eyes get heavy as her voice surrounds his whole being and is suddenly overcome with a desperate urge to call his mother. 

It’s been years since they’ve talked. 

He waits for the closing smile as she wraps up, brighter than the stage lights, before retreating to his office; willing the thought of her and his mother away. 

~ * ~

His whiskey sits beside his boot atop the coffee table, head sinking into the couch cushions as he stares up at his phone. 

His clown hands (that’s how Rose puts it) already make it rather difficult to pull up his contacts and type out a text, but the alcohol takes it to a whole new level. 

Three words, is all he wants to say. A variation of three words, really: 

_I miss you._

_I love you._

_I’m sorry, Mom._

But he can’t type the words properly and the longer he stares has it becoming one big blur; just a bright light irritating tired, drunk eyes. So he exits out, thumb bearing down on the home button far harder than necessary, and involuntarily pulls up his Uncle’s contact. 

Before he can give it a reasonable think, Ben presses the call button and shuffles the device up to his ear. 

~ * ~

He waits for her to show on the third night. Almost impatiently, ducking out of his office to scan the floor until Rose catches him out and he disappears before she can mercilessly tear him down for it. 

Ben lost count by the time she finally she showed. But this time, she isn’t alone. 

There’s two men flocking her side, all smiling and chatting away at their table. The glasses are already piling up in front of them and, even from this distance, he can tell by the rosy hue to her cheeks that she’s drunk. That and the way her earthy laughter carries over the general volume of the room. 

Something churns inside, near his chest, that really shouldn’t — it isn’t jealousy, or anger, but something he recognises as just as common. 

He remembers it taking over, on the night’s the shouting became so loud even music couldn’t drown it; the day’s his mother’s eyes were surrounded in dark circles and his father’s frown lines had deepened considerably just over night. That feeling that hollowed it all out — his stomach, his chest, his head, everything _so_ empty and barren. 

That feeling that _spurred_ into pages and pages of memories, just let it all out for good. _You’ll feel better,_ he’d said to himself while writing it, editing it, publishing it _you’ll feel better._

Except he doesn’t. With a furrowed brow, Ben bites into his cheek and turns away from the sight, falling back to business to forget it. 

He doesn’t come out to watch her performance, but he can hear it — her voice, harmonising with the lower tones, breathier from alcohol and exhilaration, laughing as her voice cracks. 

_‘As long as you follow.’_

They sing together; brightly, with clear joy within their voices. Optimistic about a once-sour relationship; rekindling it into something better and healthier. 

And maybe _that’s_ why the feeling strikes back, stronger than ever. Because he _knows_ exactly how that optimism went; what it evolved into, or more like _back_ into. 

He slams his office door behind him at the thought and dives right back into numbers. 

The hour passes slowly; slowed down by the endless acts on stage, so damn loud and annoying. 

Convincing himself to work becomes troublesome. Convincing himself to leave early, however, is all too easy — he has an early flight in the morning to Ireland, after all; best get a good night’s rest for it. 

Ben grabs his coat and shrugs into it, fully intending to head out the _back_ way, where his car is parked. 

But _she’s_ waiting at the bar and Kaydel is chatting up the guy she’s serving at the other end. 

_Don’t,_ the reasonable part inside him chirps. _She’ll be served soon enough._

Only, he’s a Solo — his father’s son, according to his mother. Always ignoring that little voice inside that says the right thing. Ignoring her simply isn’t an option. 

Long strides are made, hip knocking the side and _fuck,_ it really hurts, but she’s right in front of him and her eyes have a alcoholic daze that golden’s the hazel and with her flushed complexion Ben’s only _just now_ realizing that she has a smattering of freckles stretched over her nose and, God, she’s really too cute—

“Hey!” She announces brightly. “Hey, hi.” She repeats, a grin working at her pretty pink lips. “May I _please_ have a drink.” 

“Uh, yeah.” Ben murmurs. “Sure, of course.” She blinks up at him, waiting. “Um… what were you after?” 

“Oh!” She laughs, bracing her elbow onto the bar, chin blancing in her palm. “ _Right._ That. Sorry—”

“Oh, no, that’s okay—”

“I thought you were the guy who’s been serving me all night.” Ben racks his brain for who’s rostered that’s male. “I mean, you American’s all sound the same—” Snap. She mean’s Snap. “Look the same, too.” _Ouch._ "I think it's the hair. Or the height. Maybe both—"

“Your drink?” 

“Yes?” 

“What—”

“Oh, _yes._ Pint, please. Guiness.” 

Ben nods and grabs a glass from beneath him. He sets it on the countertop, nervously working himself up, then braces his hands on the wood. 

“You have a really nice voice.” Her expression lights up. “It’s, uh, clean.” 

“Thank you!” She shouts over the music. “That’s so sweet.” 

_Now pour the beer, Solo._

“You seem to like _Falcon Fleet_ a lot.” How long had it been since he’d said that name aloud?

“I love them.” Her eyes widened on the declaration. _“Love_ them—”

“I can tell—”

“They’re just…” She leans further into her hand, then shakes her head with a soft smile. “I love them.” 

“That’s… nice.” She nods in agreement, leaning in further. “But you could do other stuff. From some other band. Anything else, really.” 

Brows furrowing, she frowns up at him.

“Why would I do that?” 

“It’s just… you know. They’re a _little_ overrated.” 

She reels back as _if_ he’s just insulted her. Or slapped her. Both, probably. He should’ve just asked her name. 

“I’m sorry?” 

“Yeah. Yeah, I know, it’s… a controversial opinion—” 

“And wrong.”

“Music is subjective, sweetheart. No wrong opinions to be had; it's all personal.” _Oh god, he really was his father._

“Usually I’d agree, but in this case, no. No. If anything — _if anything_ , they’re underrated.” The way her eyes sharpen at the conversation pulls an abrupt laugh from his chest. 

“Underrated.” Ben repeats with a shake of his head, wide smile beginning to pull at his cheeks. “Okay, sure. That’s why they’re all millionaires.” 

“You wouldn’t understand—”

“Oh, believe me,” he interrupts quickly, forearms bearing down on the bar’s surface to draw in closer. “I understand better than most.” She juts her chin, raising her gaze to meet his own. “Look, I’m just saying — you’ve got a _great_ voice. And, you know, a variety of songs could be helpful. Maybe something more upbeat to engage the crowd—”

“You should just _really_ stop talking and get my drink.” 

He only half-listens to her request. “You have to push yourself if you want to get noticed; challenge yourself with something different. Write your own shit and fuckin’ own it on stage, you know.” The words flow from his tongue without much thought along with the Guiness he fills into a pint. “You can’t just sing the same old band every time. They’re yesterday’s news and, frankly, don’t deserve any idolisation.”

Bitterness bleeds into his tone, causing it to bloom in her expression. Ben _knew_ it was a bad decision, bringing them up. Hell, he had them blocked out for years until she walked into his bar and started singing their songs. But because of her, he wants to talk about it — he wants her to _like_ him just so he can spill the truth and stop her from idolising them; block them out alongside him. 

Only, in typical Ben Solo fashion, all he managed to do was _seriously_ piss her off. 

“I don’t want to be noticed.” She bites out, tone clipped. “I don’t _want_ to ‘write my own shit’ when it’ll never measure up.” She bares her teeth as he places the pint between them. “And I definitely don’t want some opinionated asshole to tell me what I _can_ and _can’t_ sing!” 

She snatches up her beer and storms off before he can say another word, returning to her table with a rant most like, leaving him to gape and process everything that just happened. 

After a minute or two of standing still and a whole lot of questioning if it’d be insensitive to follow up on the drink she didn’t pay, Ben turns to finally make his way out the back door. 

Suddenly, visiting his Uncle doesn’t seem so bad. 

~ * ~

The contrast is deafening when comparing to London; lush and green with rolling hills spanning on the horizon, but it’s the silence he takes note of most. Peace and quiet, Luke calls it; solitude. 

Ben disagrees. 

It’s loud. Really fucking loud. So loud that he prefers Open-Mic nights; so loud he even _attempts_ to make conversation with his Uncle, despite their dynamic requiring little to no talk at all — they clash too much with differing opinions and both have hot tempers. Luke doesn’t comment on it, though, and responds to his awkward questions with perfect civility. 

Until he turns the tides. 

“Have you spoken to your mother?” 

Ben shifts in the scuffed arm chair, turning his gaze to the withered man reclined in his own seat. Luke’s eyes remain set on the tv, watching the six-o’clock news unfold. He takes a sip of his beer, swallows thickly, then finally cocks his head to meet his nephew’s glare. 

“You know I haven’t.” 

His blue eyes don’t waver. 

“Do you think you should—”

“I’m not having this conversation—”

“Then why’d you come?” His eyes stare, dead on, pulling from the beer in the stretch of uncomfortable, _loud_ silence. “You seem so intent on cutting family from your life. Why not me, then?” 

Ben frowns, jaw clenched as he focuses back on the small tv screen. “You’re old.” he remarks, voice sharp. “And alone.” He stands and downs the rest of his beer quickly. “Someone’s gotta’ check on you; make sure you’re not dead.” 

Luke only laughs — Ben wants him to yell and scream; give him an excuse to act like a complete asshole. But he only laughs and forces his jaw down tighter. 

“I had no idea you were so concerned for my well being.” 

The words follow him as he storms from the room, climbing the steps two at a time until reaching the clustered guest bedroom with the too-small springy single bed. He flops down onto the mattress like a child and pulls out his phone. 

There’s a text from Rose. 

He thumbs in his password quickly, mispressing two times from the lingering frustration, finally unlocking the message on the third attempt.

She sent through a video. 

It buffers, with such low reception, and is ridiculously blurry when it does load. Rose’s filming is shaky, and the audio quality quite frankly sucks, but he can’t quite complain. 

In fact, when he recognises the song, Ben smiles. Then laughs. 

_Touche,_ he thinks, before closing his eyes and sinking into the pillow as she croons out the lyrics to _‘Oh Daddy’._

And just like that, Ben feels calm. 

~ * ~

The rest of the week with his Uncle goes smoothly. Talk of his parents are successfully avoided and the silence is filled with the cries of sheep as he helps feed and shear them (rather clumsily, much to Luke’s amusement). 

He drives him to the airport. They say goodbye with a nod of heads. Ben boards the flight, pops on his headphones and listens to the clip Rose sent over and over. 

When he lands a good hour later, he hears the news:

_Falcon Fleet_ have announced their final world tour. 

Ben unlocks his phone and deletes the video.


	2. Chapter 2

For his own mental well-being, Ben debates going into work. 

He called in Sunday, too tired from his recent trip. Then Monday, still tired, maybe coming down with a sickness (that’s how it felt). On Tuesday, he woke up to Rose’s **‘Are you coming in?’** text and simply sent a blunt **‘No’** back before rolling back on his side to fall back asleep. 

Three days, slept away, with a fourth soon to be added on. Only, there’s hesitance this Wednesday morning. He stares up at his phone, squinting to focus the **‘how are you feeling?** ’ text from Rose, debating on his response. 

_Like shit,_ would be the appropriate answer; _angry, annoyed, frustrated, upset—_

**‘Better.’** Ben types instead, despite being tired with little to no appetite, full-well knowing how hard it’ll be to drag himself out of bed when the time comes to do so. **‘I’m coming in tonight.’**

He should stay home — it’s in his best interest to take the whole week off, really; see a doctor and grab a referral to see a therapist ASAP. But it’s open mic night and she calls him in, like a siren; ensnaring him within his own toxic past, drowning him in memories he tries so hard to forget, pulling him right under the surface into the repressed. 

Watching all the acts before her, he wonders if it was _really_ worth subjecting himself to this self-imposed misery: 

Rose asking him if he’s okay every ten minutes, chatter loud and disrupting his plea for peace, patrons drunk and spilling sticky, sugary mixers all over the chairs and tables. 

Then she gets up on stage in a floral maxi-dress that swishes while dancing to _Gypsy,_ and he’s abruptly reminded of the time his far-sighted eyes adjusted to the clarity his new glasses afforded him. 

Her cheeks are flushed, spreading over her cute little nose, eyes closed while spinning on bare feet — he _really_ should tell her to put her shoes back on. That’s what he’s supposed to do, but the skirt of her dress flares out and the slit at the side opens and reveals the smooth skin to thigh, golden beneath the warm wash of light, and Ben slowly loses all rationality in his brain. 

His gaze follows up the exposed leg, further still to her blinding smile, a frown working at his mouth each time she spins out of view. 

Happy and carefree, she seems, unlike all the other times he’s seen her up on stage. Ben wishes it were _as_ easy to flick a switch and be the same. 

“You get the clip I sent you last week?”

He’s pulled away from her entrancing form twirling on spot and glances to Rose’s sly smirk. 

“I did. Thank you for that.” 

“Your tone is dry but I bet you’re totally _frothing_ inside—”

“Frothing?” 

“I mean, just the way you were _eyeing_ her before. I felt that heat.” 

“Wow. And to _think_ I thought you cared for my wellbeing today.” 

“I do care, Benny boy. You’re the one who pays my rent.” He rolls his eyes before flicking back to the woman on stage, noticing that her shiny hair has escaped it’s bun. “She’s not wearing shoes, by the way—”

“I’m aware.”

“Right. And are you gonna’ _do_ something about it?” 

“I could ask the same of you with that customer down the end.” 

She only sighs and nods. “I think we need more staff manning the bar on Wednesdays. I’ll find you later for a chat about it, alright?” 

“Sure. I’ll be in my office.”

He follows his words, retreating back to his office to begin looking at staff availability, willing himself not to look behind as the performance wraps up and drunken cheers erupt in the bar. 

~ * ~

“We’re gonna have to hire new staff.” 

“Why?” He whines. 

“You checked yourself, Ben, no one is available to take up a Wednesday shift.” 

“Great.” 

“Am I asking you to handle it?” 

He pouts. “No.” 

“No.” She affirms. 

“I _hate_ new people.” 

“Oh my god, you’re an actual child.” He sighs and rubs at his eyes. “These Open-Mic nights are gaining traction, Ben. We need to improve our service if we want these numbers to continue.” 

“Yeah. Alright.”

“And it won’t take long. I know someone interested.” He sinks further into his seat. “He’s already trained, by the way, so _it’s legal.”_

“Wonderful.” 

“And he’s friends with your girl out there, so you’re welcome — guess you’ll see her around more now.” 

“What!” He sits up, watching her go. _“Rose.”_ He hisses. 

“I told you I’d handle it.” 

“No. No, no, _no,_ I want to help—”

She shuts the door, ignoring his plea. 

_Always the short ones,_ he thinks, slumping in his chair.

Exhaustion begins to hit again and, after reaching for his coat, he decides to leave early. 

~ * ~

Ben catches her on the way out. She’s just exiting, alone while the two men usually flanking her side stay seated at their table, and rushes out the doors to do something reckless. 

On impulse, he shouts. “Wait!” 

She halts, turning. Her posture straightens, tall and guarded as he meanders her way. 

She blinks up at him, waiting, just as it occurs to Ben that he _probably_ should’ve planned to say something.

“You shouldn’t _not_ wear shoes in the bar.” At his sudden burst of words, she raises a brow and pointedly glances to the boots she’s wearing. “Up on stage, I mean.” He clarifies quickly, beginning to falter. “And by shouldn’t I really mean… can’t. You, um, can’t do that. At all. It’s a health and safety thing. Footwear is _mandatory_ —”

“Is that what you rushed out to tell me?” 

“I— _yes.”_ He wrenches a hand through his hair and feels his face heat up despite the chill to the wind. “Well, no, actually. Not initially. Honestly, that wasn’t meant to be said at all.”  
  
As if trying to hide a smile, she bites down on her bottom lip. It only draws his attention to her mouth. 

“I just…” He blows out a breath. “I saw your performance. Last week. Through a phone, though, not in person.”

“Ah.” She nods. “I was looking for you. That song choice was—”

“For me. Yeah. Yeah, I figured.” There’s an amused spark to her eye, brightening the hazel into something more golden. He finds it almost _easy_ to hold eye-contact because of it. “It’s a great song.” 

“Oh. Not overrated?” 

He relaxes, only slightly, once recognising that she’s teasing. “Actually, I wanted to explain that. What I said before and… and what I meant to say instead — to apologise, too. I probably should’ve lead with that, right?” He coughs into his hand. “Yeah, I… definitely should’ve lead with that.” 

Her hidden grin blooms into full view and, once again, he exhales deeply, trying to relax. She stares up at him, arms wrapped around her lithe body to keep the warmth from the bar as cool winds kick through the empty strip. He can hear rubbish scrape against asphalt and obnoxious, crude chatter from the teenage lads practicing parkour on a building across the road. His heart beats louder than it all; it floods his ears and empties his head. 

Ben clenches his fists and finds his tongue.

“I… I find it difficult to _say_ — o-or _portray,_ really, what I mean. Words don’t come easily. I think too long on it; how to _say_ things right, and it comes off stilted and… and not genuine I guess.” He sucks a breath in and glances away from her listening eyes, focusing on the small boy preparing to leap from one ledge to another. “Other times, I don’t think at all. I just blurt it all out, which is much worse, apparently.” Ben watches as he springs off the brick wall, taking a giant leap of faith, and unsteadily rights himself on the opposite side after a sketchy landing.

The boy lets out a celebratory whoop and prepares to do it all over again, only better this time. 

_Practice makes perfect,_ the phrase comes to mind — a common saying his mother would tell him when first learning the guitar. _Just wing it kid,_ his father would counter, often starting an argument. 

Ben blinks hard, willing the memory away with a deep exhale and faces her again; this time, taking a step closer. “What I’m trying to say is that I’m not good at talking, especially with people I’m unacquainted with. I get all in my head about it; I’m nervous and anxious. I… I just really suck at communicating—” 

“And say _really_ silly things.” 

He blinks in surprise as she gifts him a particularly sunny smile before biting back into her bottom lip. Yes.” He nods, a small laugh fading to a smile as he tucks in his chin and looks down. “Basically, yeah. Silly, sometimes insulting, nonsensical shit. ” 

“It’s okay. I get it. Talking can be tough” 

“Right, yeah. It can...” He laughs nervously and shifts on his feet, toying with his lips as he hesitates. “Anyways, I just… I wanted to apologise for, y’know, that night. Truth is, I um — _they’re not overrated._ Falcon Fleet, I mean.” 

Her brow furrows and another cheer airs through the night. “Then why’d you say it?” 

“To stop you from singing them.” He blurts his answer and kicks at the pavement, heel scuffing. “Unsuccessfully, clearly.”

“Because you want me to work on an original?”

“No.” Ben cuts in quickly. “No, no, I— it’s more than that. A lot more and hard to explain and…” he trails off and eyes the sky, hands burying into pockets. “Well, actually, it’s not. It’s rather simple... but _I_ _can’t._ Because it’s heavy, far too much to unload on a stranger really and, I think, if I was honest, you’d dislike me even more.” 

“I don’t dislike you.” 

“But what I said—”

“You were an arse; complete wanker, actually, but I was drunk and obnoxious, so everything was… heightened, you know.” He nods, because _yes_ — he knows exactly how alcohol can take a turn and make things seem worse than they are. “You pissed me off, that's it. And I can't exactly hate a stranger, can I?” 

“And if I give you my name?” Ben questions, meeting her eyes, brighter than the stars high above, as another cheer from the boys across the road echo into the street. “Will you hate me, then?” 

“Depends on the name.” She replies, still grinning. 

“It’s Ben. Is that… worthy of your liking?” On the inside, he’s dying — he’s criticising every word, mentally slapping himself for sounding like such an idiot. But then she laughs and Ben can’t quite help the pleased blush that works into his skin, heating him from within. 

“It’ll do.” 

“I… _thank you.”_

“Mmh, you should really be thanking your parents.” He flinches, gaze dropping to his feet. His hands find his pockets, digging in deep, brushing against jingling change as he feels her hard stare bore into him. No response comes to mind — not even one he can blurt out. 

She must have noticed. 

_Great._

He squirms again. 

“Do you… would you like to walk me home?” 

His neck cracks as it snaps back up. “Sorry?” 

“My flat isn’t too far away.” She mutters, eyes glancing to the boys across the road as she tucks hair behind an ear. “But it’s dark.” 

“I…” He trails off, swallowing thickly. “Sure—”

“I _can_ walk by myself — if I was to get jumped, I could protect myself. Just so you know.” 

“Oh.” He smiled. “I don’t doubt it. I’ll have to rely on you if we both get mugged on the way.” 

“I don’t think anyone would ever dare to mug you.” 

“No?” It takes two long strides to fall beside her as she sets off back on her path. 

“Of course not. You’re a literal building.” 

His laugh echoes in the empty street, chest loosening with the act. 

“Thanks... I guess.”

“It’s a compliment. You’re real fit.” 

The smile that splits his face in two settles and, for the first time since landing back in London, Ben is calm. 

~ * ~

On the walk home, Ben finds it easier to allow out little pieces:

The bitter sentiment regarding his parents’ band (although, he kept the ‘parents’ part to himself), the connection it held to a rather gloomy childhood and all the memories it brought up. 

In return, she mentions the opposite:

Falcon Fleet’s music doesn’t hinder, but helps instead — something close to a wonderful distraction at night; a lullaby that urged sleep, not the tears of a heartbroken mother at the sound of a slammed door. 

He wants to ask why she needs it, what she sought distraction from, but then feared she’d ask the same too. _Best not to tell her the complete truth,_ Ben decides quickly, keenly watching her expression dance as she talks about all her other favourite songs and artists, _then she really would hate me._

So he remains content in listening. And laughing. And smiling, letting her talk the whole way, enjoying himself more than he has in a long, _long_ time. 

The walk ends far too quickly. Somehow, he’s brave enough to remark on looking forward to seeing her next Wednesday. 

In reply, she asks to see him sooner. 

Ben agrees embarrassingly quick, which earns a laugh and a wide smile, before they exchange numbers. 

It’s only after she’s inside that he checks the new contact. 

_Rey._

He grins the whole way back to the bar.

**Author's Note:**

> HAPPY BIRTHDAY LINDSAY! I hope you have the most fantastic day ever and listen to a bunch of Gang of Youths songs xx
> 
> Love you dearly


End file.
